


that lonesome road

by judyjargon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Miscommunication, angst angst angst, but super minor spoilers, literally mentioned twice, my poor boys they just want the other one to be happy, why can't i write them being happy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judyjargon/pseuds/judyjargon
Summary: Sylvain is willing to let him go.All Felix wants is to be asked to stay.-Based off Kirby Shaw's arrangement of "That Lonesome Road' by James Taylor.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	that lonesome road

**Author's Note:**

> my brain said "azure moon route but with other route ending and make it sad" and i obliged...  
> why can't i just let them be happy?????

_ Walk down that lonesome road all by yourself _

_ - _

He would compare it to missing a limb, if anyone cared to ask him.

_ DimitriandIngridandSylvainand—  _

If he closes his eyes long enough, sometimes he can imagine that what he wants is a mere letter away, a few days journey. He can imagine sapphire hair and amber eyes, slim shoulders and loose locks of hair. He can imagine childhood laughter and childhood tears, all meshed together until the lines blur. If he closes his eyes long enough, he can imagine that he is happy, living in his big empty mansion with its echoing halls and eerie rooms that are always cold. Cold, cold, cold, even in northern Faerghus. 

But he doesn’t close his eyes anymore. He doesn’t pine—he certainly doesn’t imagine. He keeps his head down and does paperwork in his quiet study. He buries himself in negotiations with Sreng and manages two territories at once, willing himself to forget who should be by his side, ruling over these territories with him.

It’s a dangerous train of thought, and he shuts it down as quickly as he can.

He used to entertain those thoughts, back when the wound was fresh and his heart still bled. Could he have foreseen it? Did he miss the signs? Had there been any other way to stop him?

Was it his fault?

These days, he keeps himself busy with his work. Gautier is prospering and the Lance of Ruin has been laid to rest, unneeded in the year since the war ended. Relations with Sreng are improving. What more could he possibly ask for?

He doesn’t let himself think too hard on that question.

_ - _

_ Don’t turn your head back over your shoulder _

_ - _

He wanders

His brother is dead. His father is dead. What was there possibly left for him in Faerghus?

_ DimitriandIngridandFelixand—  _

He knows he’s lying to himself. There had been something,  _ someone _ , left for him in Faerghus. But he needed more, and it would never have been enough for him. He’d had to go. Fodlan and the lands beyond had beckoned him and he had answered, relishing in the opportunity to wield his sword and stay on his feet.

The life that had been set out before him… It simply wouldn’t have been enough—wouldn’t have filled the roaring chasm in his soul left from the war. All he can do is wake up every morning and swing his sword, hope to fill the holes in the shape of Glenn and his father. Every breath is a battle, a thousand broken shards in his lungs that bleed him from the inside out.

He doesn’t let himself think of red hair and broad shoulders, refuses to let himself imagine an easy smile and gleaming eyes. Every swing of his sword erases those thoughts, forces him to focus his mind until he becomes the weapon he wields—no emotions, no attachments to hold him back. No reason to look backwards.

Pining is dangerous—wanting is dangerous. 

He can’t afford to think like that.

-

_ And only stop to rest yourself when the silver moon is shining high above the trees _

_ - _

Sylvain watches him the whole time.

He watches Felix slip away as Dimitri greets newly reconquered Fhirdiad, the only one to notice the Swordmaster’s melancholy for what it is. He doesn’t bother to wait for Dimitri to finish before he follows after him, heading the opposite way of the festivities.

Sylvain finds him leaning on one hand against the balcony near the rooms they used to stay in as children. From when they used to visit the capital with their fathers to be groomed to take over the most influential territories in Faerghus. 

“Hey.”

Felix turns his head the slightest bit, though otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him. He comes up beside him and grabs his hand, interlocking their fingers and settling himself close beside him. He turns himself to face Felix, who still stares straight ahead into the setting sun.

The red light caresses his features, glinting off amber eyes and cradling slim shoulders. Silence isn’t uncommon from Felix, and Sylvain is infinitely patient. When he’s ready to speak, he will, and so he’ll wait there for him forever if he must, relishing in the comfort of the sword-calloused hand in his. 

A shuddering sigh leaves the swordmaster, who finally turns towards Sylvain as the sky bleeds nearly into black. “I never thought…”

Sylvain reaches up a hand to cradle Felix’s jaw, gently turning the man to face him. A warm, melancholy smile settles onto his face, so different from the smirks and leers of their academy days. 

“I know. I didn’t either." He leans down to press a kiss against Felix’s temple, “It’s cold. Let’s go to bed.”

The way that Felix bonelessly lets himself be tugged along tells him all he needs to know.

-

_ If I had stopped to listen once or twice _

-

Dimitri and Byleth get married with little fanfare and the smallest ceremony for a noble that Felix has ever witnessed, held in the hazy purples of the setting sun.

It’s an intimate affair, with only their closest allies from the war in attendance. The happy couple is enamored with each other and spend the whole party practically intertwined. Felix only gives them a nod of congratulations from across the room, where he isolates himself from the merriment.

When Sylvain sidles up next to him with a glass of something, he doesn’t hesitate to take it from him. Felix looks to his companion—though that isn’t the right word. He’s not sure that there is the right word, not for them. Nothing delineates the lines they have and have not crossed. 

“What now?”

The war is over. It’s time to exchange swords and lances for pens and ink pots, to settle into their separate territories, to begin the work of creating a new nation from scratch. Dimitri is King and Byleth is Archbishop. It’s only natural that they both become Duke and Margrave.

Felix has never wanted anything less in his life. But for Sylvain… He scares himself when he considers what he would sacrifice for Sylvain. For the smallest bit of affection from him.

Sylvain sips his drink, “Go back to Gautier. Change things. Make it so I never have to pick up the Lance of Ruin again.” The cavalryman turns his gaze towards him, scrutinizing and calculating. “What about you?”

There are only two options in Felix’s mind—become Duke, or disappear forever. 

He shrugs, “Wherever my sword takes me.”

Not a lie, but certainly not a truth. Somewhere in the twilight inbetween.

_ Ask me to stay, ask me to go with you. Ask me and I will. _

“Well, make sure to come visit once in a while.”

Something in Felix dies.

-

_ If I had closed my mouth and opened my eyes _

_ - _

Sylvain comes to slowly, as if wading through muck. 

His entire body aches, and there’s a weight pressed against his thigh. He lifts his head the slightest bit and sees a head of midnight hair. The rise and fall of Felix’s shoulders is smooth and consistent, the sound of his breath oddly soothing. The sun is rising outside the window, streaking the sky in reds and oranges.

It had been worth it—jumping in front of that axe. Felix, in his Faerghus furs and light Swordmaster armor would have been too vulnerable. Better it had been him.

Felix is safe, and that’s what matters. As long as Felix is there, it will always be worth it. There’s no debate in Sylvain’s mind.

Felix shifts in his undoubtedly uncomfortable position leaned over the side of Sylvain’s infirmary bed, turning his head and opening his eyes. They widen as soon as they take in the sight of Sylvain. 

The swordsman immediately sits up and pulls himself towards Sylvain. His face is unsurprisingly livid as he grabs his hand and clutches it tight. “You  _ fool _ .”

A weak smile is all he manages before the coughing fit hits. Felix hands him a glass of water and he gladly downs it. It doesn’t stop Felix’s lecture, though.

“I  _ told _ you not to do that, Sylvain. I told you not to pull any of that self-sacrificing bullshit.”

He opens his mouth to refute him, to explain why he would jump in front of any weapon for Felix no matter his own mortality.

That is, until Felix leans forwards and desperately presses his forehead against his, lingering but a hair’s breadth away. Felix’s trembling hands come up to cradle his face as Sylvain loosely grabs his wrists, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs. 

“Don’t go where I can’t follow you,” Felix murmurs, eyes closing to hide whatever emotion it is he doesn’t want Sylvain to see. “Sylvain, promise me.” The  _ again _ goes unspoken. 

Sylvain leans forward with the barest pressure, a moment of time carved out for them. “I promise.”

It’s empty, but it’s all he has.

Felix still sees through him.

_ - _

_ If I had cooled my head and warmed my heart _

_ - _

Felix leaves in the middle of the night. 

His supplies have been packed for weeks, the beginning of his route already mapped out and planned. 

No matter how hard he tries, Felix will never feel at home in Fraldarius, stuck inside that manor of ghosts which nip at his heels with every step he takes through those damn halls. He can’t do it. He won’t do it. Will he?

When he arrives in the stables, he’s both shocked and utterly expecting to see Sylvain there, dozing off as he leans against the door. His head shoots up at the sound of Felix’s footsteps against the cobblestone, suddenly wide awake. 

His eyes turn sad, a melancholy smile etching itself onto his features. “I knew you’d leave. It was just a matter of when.”

Felix simply stares at the cavalryman, his childhood best friend and… and something more. Something undefinable. 

“You can’t stop me.” The lie falls easily from his lips.

Sylvain pushes himself off the door and stops himself too far from Felix. “I know.”

_ Say something—anything. Tell me to stay, and I will. I’ll stay for you, even if it kills me. Even if it suffocates me. _

He doesn’t say those things, he doesn’t address what has remained unspoken between them for many moons. He bites his tongue and brushes past Sylvain, knuckles skimming across each other and sending a shock of lighting straight to his heart. Sylvain grabs his hand and stops him, delicately intertwining their fingers. Felix doesn’t turn around. If he does, he won’t be able to leave. He needs to leave. He should leave.

“I love you.”

Felix’s breath catches in his throat, panic rising in him. All he’s ever wanted to hear and yet… and yet it’s not enough.

Does he love him? Or does he simply want him to stay?

He disentangles their hands and keeps walking.

_ - _

_ I'd not be on this road tonight _

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @feyreofthewildfire  
> i also lurk around on the sylvix discord server


End file.
